


Breeding Lilacs

by guten_morgenstern



Category: Darkest Dungeon (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Multi, Rating will change, Slow Burn, canon-typical eldritch abominations
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-18
Updated: 2016-04-11
Packaged: 2018-04-21 08:31:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4822298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guten_morgenstern/pseuds/guten_morgenstern
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>April is the cruelest month, breeding<br/>Lilacs from the dead land,<br/>Mixing memory and desire.<br/><i>- T. S. Eliot</i></p><p>Ruin, redemption, and wealth beyond measure wait beneath the dark manor.  To reach it, the heir and his complement of would-be heroes must make their way through ruins, dangerous terrain, and all manner of evil things, only some of which can actually be fought with steel.  And sometimes cruel things come in sweet packages.</p><p>A tragedy in five parts, with a full chorus of heroes, madmen, monsters, and the unfortunate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Breeding Lilacs  
A tragedy in five parts

_Dramatis Personae_

Mr. Black -- Heir of the Black Estate  
Dismas -- A Highwayman, with Past  
Reynauld -- A Soldier of Faith  
Dubosc -- A Bounty Hunter  
Digby -- An Occultist, Also with Past  
Paschal -- A Graverobber, Presumably with Past  
Isolde -- A Plague Doctor  
Pistres -- A Hellion, Who Once Had a Past but Beat It to Death  
Nelond -- A Jester  
Morticia -- A Vestal  
Alder -- A Leper, Whose Past Does Not So Much Follow Him As It Does Occasionally Fall Off Of Him

And a full chorus of Heroes, Madmen, Monsters, and the Unfortunate  
   
PART ONE – BURIAL OF THE DEAD.

The chill April rains had left the ancient, broken cobbles of the old road swamped by mud and mire; even had the stagecoach continued on its journey to the hamlet, the likelihood that it would have seen it through to the end was slim at best. Long stretches of the road were drowned in murky water nearly knee deep in places and treacherous with roots and hollows. Sure footing was difficult enough for man, to say nothing of horses and coach wheels. In some ways, traveling by power of flesh and grim determination was more reliable than wood and the labor of beasts--

but, Dismas thought as he had to yank his foot, nearly without his boot attached, from the sucking grasp of the soaked earth, it was still a hard and hateful business. A few paces ahead, Reynauld fared little better; the weight of his armor and gear made stable purchase all the harder to find. More than once, as they made their slow and inexorable path towards the dark estate, Dismas and the heir-- the young Mr. Black, pale and smooth-cheeked and smooth-palmed from years of penmanship rather than hard labor-- had to seize him under the arms and pull him from the entrapment of the mud or a hidden sinkhole concealed by still, brackish water that may very well have swallowed him whole had he been traveling alone. The highwayman, though hardly a stranger to long roads, had little reason to gain much experience with ones in such disrepair; no man with a full purse would have good cause to travel through these miserable lands. The only feet that trod down this dark route were the desperate and the foolhardy, and Dismas had already seen the bones and shallow graves of one kind or another. If they had a little luck-- a rare commodity in these parts, no doubt-- the torrential rains would have spared the dead; the scenery was poor enough without some bloated corpse adding to it.

They followed the serpentine road, what little they could make of it in the flood waters, along its lonely, languid sprawl, and whatever progress they made towards the hamlet-- and the only relative safety-- seemed to dwindle in the dying light of the setting sun. By day, it was dangerous enough; by night, even more, without taking into account the unreliable footing and hidden natural traps of the old road itself.

Reyanuld shifted his pack on his shoulders, bearing more than his fair share of the gear as it was, waiting in one of the rare, somewhat drier patches of cobblestone near the side of the road while Mr. Black struggled to catch up. Dismas stood nearby, drawn up close to take advantage of the chance to have his feet, however briefly, out of water.

"We should find a place to camp for the night," the crusader said. "We're bogged down even in daylight. When night falls, we'll never be able to keep to the road, nor our footing besides."

"And if we stop," Dismas said, tugging his hood back up over his head as it started to slip, "we'll be beset by bandits before we could think to light a fire-- not that you could, in this damp. We'll have to press on, if we want any hope of getting our charge to his estate in one piece. I'd like to get paid, if it's all the same to you, and dead men give poor wages."

Reynauld ran a hand through his hair, once sandy brown but now dark and plastered wet to his skull; it stood up at odd angles after the passage of his leather-clad fingers. His lips twisted, pursing into a frown as the heir stumbled his way over a tree root that had left a deep fissure in the paving stones.

"Have we even enough torches to take us through the night?"

"If we use them carefully?" Dismas said. "No. I suggest praying, if you've a talent for it."

"I do so enjoy these trips with you, Dismas," Reynauld sighed, clapping a loose hand against the highwayman's shoulder.

Their talk faded away-- quickly deadened by the oppressive smothering of the close-grown trees-- as Mr. Black finally reached their cobblestone island.

"Come now, Mr. Black," Reynauld said, offering an arm for the young man to gratefully grab on to. "You'd best walk between the two of us from now on. We wouldn't want you getting lost."

In the end, moving or not, the bandits came.

Like moths to flame, they were undeterred by the prospect of danger on the flooded road-- the promise of any gold in these lean times was enough, and they knew this road and its secrets. They waited, watching the slow approach of the guttering torchlight, in the dark hiding spots afforded by the trees; waiting, covering the creak of the crossbow bolt being drawn back by the groan of the branches overhead. The noise of feet through the underbrush was deadened by soft-soled shoes, more without sole by now than with, and the hiss of rain through the young leaves.

When the light was close enough that it gleamed in hungry eyes and teeth, sharp-bright like on the cutting edges of the bolt, careful hands took careful aim at unsuspecting prey; then loosed the arrow with the equally hungry hope of a killing strike.

There was a dull flash of light off of the bolt's edge as it made its flight and Reynauld staggered; high-speed metal striking metal breastplate rang out not with the clear peal of a bell, but like a hammer against an anvil, with weight and force. Dismas had drawn his flintlock before Reynauld had even managed to regain his footing, and, as the bandits emerged from their cover on either side of the road, shot the nearest one in the chest. The retort of the firearm was thunderous in the claustrophobic density of the overhanding trees, and the highwayman was forced to draw his dirk and duck away from the stinging cloud of gunpowder that hung in the still air. The shot had gone true, right into his would-be assailant's chest, felling him and turning him from a lethal threat into a tripping hazard in an instant.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Reynauld push young Mr. Black-- near useless in a skirmish with no weapon and no training with one besides-- back from their attackers, protecting him bodily with plate metal armor and militaristic efficiency with a longsword. Dismas had little time to be concerned with the state of Reynauld or their employer, however, as he had a more pressing concern for the brigand looming up before him and his burly fellow, who was trying to flank him from the left.

He privately wagered that neither of them were going to get paid nearly enough for all this trouble.

The smaller bandit to his front parried the first thrust of Dismas' dirk, aimed towards his belly, which suited him well enough; he followed it through with a strike across the face with the torch in his other hand, catching him off-guard and half-blinding him besides. While the brigand was more occupied by the burns to his face than the fight at hand, Dismas opened his throat with a quick sideways flick of the sharp blade and threw himself to the side just in time to avoid getting his skull split by the mace of the downed robber’s friend. It was only the more savory option by a small margin; when he rolled back to his feet, he grimaced at the icy chill of his wet, mud-drenched coat clinging to his back. The torch, forgotten on the ground, lay sputtering and throwing dancing shadows in twisted, tortured shapes.

Dismas shifted his grip on the dirk, keeping his distance from his larger foe; the ground was too unreliable for too much nimble footwork, and he was outmatched here pound for pound. The brigand had nearly a head's worth of height on him and an unknowable amount of weight besides, muscle or otherwise. It was impossible to tell if, underneath his layers of stained, ragged clothes and piecemeal leather armor, his girth was all strength or just stubborn mass, though it was probably all academic either way. Pounds were pounds, and whatever his were made of, it didn’t seem to hinder his swing.

That abruptly stopped being a problem when one powerful stroke of Reynauld's blade from behind nearly severed the brigand's head from his shoulders. Dismas felt the arterial spray spatter across his front, wet on wet. The would-be bandit toppled, buckling at the knees, and fell into the brackish mud with a wet, muted slap.

Reynauld stopped to pull the torch out of the mud and held the guttering light over his downed foe; he prodded him in the shoulder with a booted foot, frowning as he examined the incomplete beheading.

He clucked his tongue in self-disapproval.

"I've done better."

Dismas wiped down his dirk and sheathed it, a quick and mindless motion that his fingers knew by muscle memory.

"Getting old, friend?" he asked, light and conversational. "Should we trade your sword in for a walking stick? Do you need spectacles to see a neck properly?"

"I'll see you properly about your ears in a minute," the crusader replied and, danger dealt with for now, retraced his steps in search of their young employer. He found him crouched in the crook of a tree's roots, tucked in tight and clutching a knife that probably would've served him better paring apples than defending him. Even so, he was unharmed, and that was the important part. They would be poor bodyguards if they let their charge get killed by a few brigands before they were even within eyeshot of the estate. For such a poor performance, even Dismas might have agreed that their payment was rightly forfeit, and knowing the rigors of his profession, Reynauld would have bet both their wages that he'd created corpses for a smaller price.

"Well, Mr. Black," Reynauld said, reaching down to grab the young man by the forearms and pull him to his feet. "We're done with the excitement for now. Time to keep moving, there's a good lad."

"This won't be all of them," Dismas said, shouldering the pack that Black had dropped when he was fleeing for cover. "They're like rats. If you see one or two, you know there's a dozen more farther in."

Mr. Black blanched, the color visibly draining from his face.

"Good thing we're not here to kill rats, then," Reynauld replied, perhaps just a little pointedly.

Dismas turned with a low snort, looking down the road that they had yet to tread. These woods were dark and deep, and there were many miles left to go before any of them could reach safety. 

"Let's just get on with it," he said, and started picking his way across the half-sunken route. 

An indeterminable amount of time and a burned-through torch later, after slogging through a good many miles of swamp-thick mud and dilapidated highway, the mercenaries and their charge reached a fork. There must have once been a sign out at the middle of it, presumably to direct travelers towards the hamlet or nearby city, but all that was left of it now was a rotting wood pole with a few rusty nails. And, as they saw clearly when Reynauld brought the torch nearer, what appeared to be a human skull, grinning obscenely and skewered up through the jaw by the moldering wood.

"Charming," Dismas said. "I do love the quaint customs of country folk."

"But not very helpful," said Reynauld. "Unless, of course, you count necromancy among your many talents, friend."

"A much neglected part of my schooling, I'm not at all sorry to say," Dismas replied. "But I might be more inclined to follow the coach tracks that head along that way than the advice of a dead man, regardless. Clearly it wasn't of much use to him."

"A fair enough point," Reynauld conceded, tapping his chin contemplatively with one finger. "Though if poor choice in paths was his downfall, I'd think, between the two of us, that we'd be able to puzzle out a better course. The odds are half-and-half, anyway."

"I'd still rather not take the advice," Dismas said, looking sidelong up at his companion, grin half-visible beneath the cloth wrapped around his face, "of a man who was clearly dead _wrong_."

Reynauld groaned.

From behind them, their employer cleared his throat impatiently and with no small amount of trepidation.

"I think," Dismas said, "that our employer agrees with me."

"I think that your employer would rather not stand about in the rain, looking at a piece of desecrated corpse and waiting for more bandits to show," Mr. Black replied. "In fact, I think that he might thank you to do just about anything else."

"Apologies, Mr. Black," Reynauld said. "Forgive Dismas and I our peculiar sense of humor."

"Peculiar? _Peculiar_ is what I did to your mother--" 

"And," Reynauld continued loudly, "perhaps we should go the way that he's suggested, before he suggests any number of other things."

There was no need for Dismas to add anything further to the conversation; his grin said plenty on its own.

Mr. Black stared at the both of them for a few long moments and, not for the first time, wondered why he had ever left his quiet home to come on this terrible adventure at all.

"Yes," he said slowly. "Let's do that."

He did not add, though he was sorely tempted to, that he would be willing to go anywhere but here, so long as no more puns or off-color jokes were involved. He had the distinct impression that it would only have encouraged Dismas, and the highwayman clearly needed no encouragement.

They continued to slog down the road in the dim torchlight.

\--

The sight of that dreary, decrepit hamlet had never been so welcome as when it appeared over the ridge to their ragtag party. The rain had finally ceased and dawn was beginning to break; the night had been filled with many long miles through the slowly deepening mud and another run-in with bandits that nearly proved disastrous. And Dismas had the hastily-bandaged wound on his forehead to prove it. The aforementioned wound, as though recognizing that attention had been drawn to it again, gave a cruel throb that felt like it went from his temple all the way down to his shoulders.

But they had arrived-- Mr. Black had been more-or-less safely seen to his ancestral homestead, and Dismas was looking forward to a warm inn, a hot meal, and a very large glass of something alcoholic. Preferably strong enough to strip paint.

Looking at the miserable excuse for a town that huddled below the cliff, he doubted that he'd get either of the first two. The third, perhaps-- there was no possible way that anyone could live in such a wretched place without drinking themselves stupid every night. And, God willing, neither would he.

"Well, Mr. Black," Reynauld said. "Here we are."

"My God," the young man said dully, gazing out across the expanse of land that was, presumably, his, "what a dismal place."

Dismas snorted from his place at Reynauld's side, almost incomprehensible from all the layers he'd wrapped himself in to keep the rain out. 

"That's one way to put it. You might also try 'miserable shithole'."

Reynauld pursed his lips at the comment, but was otherwise entirely unable to refute it.

"Yes," Mr. Black said. "That, too."

"Well," Dismas said, "I suppose it's _your_ miserable shithole, at least, so let's find whatever passes for lodgings in it before I become permanently waterlogged."

Without waiting for a reply, the highwayman began to pick his way down the steep, wet path that led towards town, whistling a tune that was altogether too jaunty for the dismal place they were headed. Reynauld shouldered his burdens and followed after, squelching unfortunately the whole way, with Black just behind him. Regardless of the state of the hamlet, all parties involved were much more interested in the state of their feet and stomachs and weary backs. Lodgings first-- depressing town, later.

The proprietor of the sole inn in town, which was an establishment as sorry and run-down as the rest of the hamlet, was a large, swarthy man by the name of Tapping. When they entered, there weren't any patrons yet gracing the common room-- too early yet, perhaps-- but Tapping was behind the worn bar, wiping down chipped glasses with a threadbare cloth. He glanced up at them and had to look twice; his broad brow furrowed briefly before he turned away to put the glass on a shelf. When he turned back, there was at least an attempt at joviality on his face for his new customers. It was a nice try, even if it wasn't a particularly convincing one, at playing the archetypal jolly innkeep from the common consciousness.

"Good morning, sirs," he said, "and welcome to our little town."

"I've had warmer welcomes to morgues," Dismas muttered into the cloth wrapped around his face. Immediately afterward, he grunted around Reynauld's elbow from where it was jammed in his side.

"Good morning," Black stepped up to the bar and put his hands on its surface, then slowly withdrew them with the tacky sound of congealed _something_ that stuck to his fingers. He tried to surreptitiously wipe his fingers off on his jacket. "I, um. The caretaker was supposed to escort me here, but we were waylaid on the road. Did he make it back?”  
“Came in near midnight,” the bartender replied, “down one horse and with hardly half a carriage in tow.”

He set the glass down on the still slightly sticky bar top and tipped his head back a little, looking down at Black with curious eyes and deeply furrowed forehead.

“You’re the Black boy, then? The heir to the old estate up on the moor?”

Black drew himself up to the full extent of his limited stature.

“I am. I’m here at the behest of my late uncle,” he said, “on unfinished business.”

“My condolences for your loss,” Tapping said, “but if you’re here for his effects, there’s nothing left. Whatever wealth he had’s buried underneath that damned manor, and enough blood’s been spilled over that.”

Dismas leaned against one of the tables set up near the bar, ears pricking at the mention of wealth. 

“The manor’s what I’m here for,” said Black. “It’s my birthright, _my estate_ , and I’m here to claim it. If you’ll kindly point me in the direction of the caretaker?”

“Light preserve us all,” Tapping said, and drew a breath in sharp between his teeth. “You’ll find Roderick up near the old chapel, last I knew. Been there since he got back, locked up and praying.”

“Thank you,” Black replied, starting to pick at the sleeve of his jacket. “And, if you don’t mind, I’ll need a room. Two of them, actually, for me and my, um.” He glanced uneasily back at his companions. “…Friends.”

Tapping looked over at Dismas and Reynauld; the highwayman, bored of the conversation once it strayed from wealth, was digging out dirt from underneath his nails with the point of his dagger. He wiggled his fingers at the barkeep in a jaunty wave. Reynauld looked deeply unimpressed and pushed Dismas’ hand back down to his side.

“Right,” Tapping drawled. “I’ll have one of the girls see to it.”

Black nodded once and turned from the bar, taking a steeling breath and walking over towards his crusader bodyguard. “Then, Reynauld, would you mind coming with me?”

He slung his pack off of his shoulder and swung it by the strap over at Dismas; the highwayman caught it in the stomach and was briefly winded from the weight. Either Reynauld had the carrying capacity of a pack mule, or he had purposefully filled his bag with bricks for the sole purpose of making Dismas’ life difficult. It was a toss-up, either way.

“Of course, Mr. Black,” he said. “Dismas here can see to our things. See to our things, won’t you, friend?”

Dismas only grunted in reply.

“Good,” Reynauld said, taking Black by the elbow and leading him to the door.


	2. I.II

I.II

Reynauld followed the young Mr. Black out of the tavern; there was a brief, chill burst of air from the opened door before they disappeared into the dismal town. Dismas huffed and dropped the pack in his arms, letting it hit the rough wood floor with a heavy thud. He prodded it with one foot a few times, testing the weight, before shoving it to the side with the instep of his foot.

"So," he said, regarding the barkeeper, "I recall you said something about a room? And a girl?"

Tapping turned and called out towards the door leading into the kitchen, and a moment or two later, a young girl, perhaps somewhere in her teens, stuck her fair blond head into the room.

"Get a pair of rooms in order, Anna dear," he said. "One for Mr. Dismas here and his friend, and the other for Mr. Black."

The girl ducked in a quick curtsey Dismas' way, then turned and ran to the stairs, taking them two at a time. Dismas leaned a little to the side to watch her skirts disappear up the landing.

"You're welcome to the room and the bed, Mr. Dismas," Tapping said, and the highwayman leaned back against the bar and tilted his head idly in the barkeeper's direction. "But I'd best not find my niece in either."

"You wound me, sir," he drawled in reply, "I'm a gentleman and a scholar."

"You're one thing or the other, I'm sure," Tapping said, picked up his rag again and resumed cleaning the barware, "none of which my niece needs."

Dismas clucked his tongue, a little annoyed sound in the empty common room, and turned his head away from Tapping. With little to entertain him now that Reynauld and their charge was gone and the town was still barely waking up, his brief spark of good humor was starting to fade. He frowned, then slipped his dirk out of his sheath and began to clean underneath his fingernails with it.

"Well, aside from your dear niece," he said, "what's there for entertainment in this town? There must be something that you spend your coin on, even here."

The glass that Tapping was wiping off came down hard on the bar top next to Dismas, slightly to the left, with a heavy _clap_ ; he startled and the dirk cut a little red line underneath his thumb nail. He looked sidelong at the barkeeper, who had picked up another glass and was cleaning it, innocent as you please, and sucked the blood from the offended digit.

" _Well_ , Mr. Dismas," he said, "come back here past dark and you'll find a few things to interest you, I'd warrant. The lads like a few hands of cards and some dice, and we've a few... ladies of negotiable affections that come ‘round for the evening hours. Gentlemanly pursuits for a gentleman and a scholar."

Dismas eyed Tapping up and down for a few long moments, then split his face with a crooked grin.

"I see that we understand each other, Mr. Tapping," he said, "I see that we understand each other well, indeed. What are the odds that I might find a little coffee waiting for me while I hang my coat? I've a feeling I might be here for a spell, and I'll ruin your floors with my dripping."

"Fair odds, Mr. Dismas," Tapping replied. "Greatly increased if you open your purse."

The highwayman fished briefly through a pocket on the inside breast of his coat and tossed a few chilly coins onto the bar top; they were quickly taken into Tapping's hand, and then were gone entirely from Dismas' view from the subtle motion of fingers far cleverer than he'd anticipated. He pushed off of the bar, ruminating on Tapping's masterful little bit of sleight-of-hand-- and where he might have acquired such an unusual skill-- and started to shuck off his weather-beaten overcoat to hang near the fireplace. Underneath it, his jacket was also damp from the multiple spills and rolls he'd taken along the practically swampish old road, and it went up to join his coat on the peg. Once they dried, he'd have to see if he could get one of the girls here to beat the dry mud off of his overcoat and maybe wash out the jacket, lest he spend the rest of his time in this town smelling faintly of rotting peat. An undesirable and wholly unacceptable state to be in, he supposed, regardless of how backwater these country folk are.

The fireplace itself was large, and the roaring fire within was consuming several thick logs of wood, interrupted occasionally by sputters and crackles. The wet weather had left the wood still damp, making for a smoky and noisy burn-- though Dismas had little against the smell of woodsmoke, especially when compared to the peat that pervaded his clothing. The hearth itself, though he was no stonemason, seemed to be made of granite tiles, quite handsome in their arrangement, and the mantle was mahogany and skillfully carved. He ran his thumb along one of the carved edges; there was a crack in it whose sharp border caught on his skin, marring an otherwise excellent piece of wood. And, looking along its length, he could see that there were more little imperfections, both normal wear and otherwise.

The mix of woodsmoke and damp peat near the fire, however, was becoming increasingly unappealing; more appealing was the warm aroma of brewing coffee that wafted over from behind the bar, and, clad in vest and shirtsleeves and trousers that would have to remain unfortunately wet and muddied until his room was ready, Dismas slid into a stool to do what he did best with the time he had-- kill it.

\--

Two cups of coffee later, most graciously served with a little cream by the courtesy of Mr. Tapping's good humor, and the lovely young niece returned from fixing up the rooms. She bounded down the stairs, skirts flouncing, shoes tapping on the floor as she approached the bar. She dipped in another charming little curtsey to Dismas.

"Your room is ready, Mr. Dismas," she said. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

The highwayman didn't have to look to know the kind of expression that Mr. Tapping was sending his way at that point, and thus chose to completely ignore it.

"I would be much obliged if you'd draw me a bath, love," he said. 

Then, at least, he would be able to wash some of the remnants of the Old Road off of himself, and good riddance to it. If he never had to travel down that awful highway again, he'd consider himself lucky.

"Of course, Mr. Dismas. I'll go stoke the boilers," Anna replied, bounced in what was probably supposed to be another curtsey, then was off again. Dismas could hear her footsteps ascending the wooden stairs and tapping across the upstairs floor.

Drawing the bath took long enough that Dismas was able to finish his cup of coffee before Anna returned. When she did, with more curtseys and _Mr. Dismas, sir_ s, she led him up the old, creaking staircase into the upper floors. The floor in the long hallway was covered by a thin carpet, once probably patterned in rich colors but now threadbare and worn down the middle; it cushioned the sound of Anna's feet only a little, hardly helped by her bouncing, excited steps. She prattled the whole way down while Dismas followed behind with pack on his shoulder, barely listening. They must really get few visitors, he supposed, if she was so enthusiastic about him and his companions. Three guests hardly keeps an inn in business, but the highwayman could see no other signs of other occupants at the establishment; no sounds from within the rooms he passed, nor other patrons passing in the hall.

"Here we are, Mr. Dismas, sir," she said, stopping at the end of the hallway in front of the last door. There was a plaque hanging on it labeled _bath room_ , making it fairly obvious what its purpose was for. "I'll fetch your friend's bag and put it in your room. Please let me know if you'll be needing anything else."

She curtseyed again-- Dismas wondered how her knees could stand it, all that bobbing and bouncing when his own would be smarting with half that effort-- opened the door for him, and then left back down the way they had come. A billow of steam rolled lazily out the open door, and he stepped inside and closed the door to prevent the warm air from escaping more.

\--

By the time Reynauld returned, presumably with Mr. Black in tow, Dismas had already bathed and dressed and was lazing in the room, sitting on the bed with pistols in hand. He'd only fired a few times on the old road, preferring to fight his battles up close, so the action was more from habit than actual necessity. Too much gunpowder lingered in the stifling, still air there to make gunplay a viable option. And though they were still fairly clean and probably didn't need it, Dismas was in the process of taking them apart to give them all a good cleaning and oiling. There were two things that the highwayman owned that he treated with the utmost care and concern-- his pistols and his dirk, because he put his life on both and he valued his neck quite highly these days.

"Back from your excursion already?" Dismas said, reapplying gun oil to an old rag. "And how was your tour of this lovely little town? A wonder there's not more tourism in the area."

Reynauld favored him with a dry glance and walked over to his side of the room, where his pack waited at the foot of his bed. He started unbuckling the various straps and buckles that affixed his armor to his torso, taking it off piece by piece.

"Mr. Black and I found the caretaker," he said with a long-suffering sigh. "Roderick, I think they said his name was? I can't say he was terribly much help, though, not with the state he's in now. Mad as a hatter, it must be from staying in this town for so long."

"Can you blame him?" Dismas asked. "I'd imagine that madness would be a welcome respite."

"Tortured madness, I'm afraid, not the manic kind," he said and stooped to unbuckle his greaves. "I pity him, Dismas, I truly do. And I've a terrible feeling in my bones about this whole wretched endeavor."

"I'd pity him more if he hadn't abandoned us to our own devices on the road," Dismas said with a snort. "And I've a terrible feeling in my _purse_ about this whole endeavor. We were promised a fortune, old friend, and I don't see much about this place that suggests there's much of that left. If I came all this way for nothing, then Mr. Black and I will be having words, none of which I think he'll be fond of."

"The subject was broached," Reynauld said slowly, "to an extent, anyway. There's little wealth left in the town, that's for certain, but Mr. Black's late uncle seems to have once had quite the fortune, most of it still in the area. There are ruins to the north of the old house that he's quite sure will still have much of its stores still intact, and brigands have fair run of the Weald. From what I've been told, they only venture out to raid and hoard most of what they've found."

Dismas shrugged. "It's a start. I've little love for the idea of storming a brigand camp, but we've cleared out worse places for cheaper pay. And ruins should be easy pickings, once you get 'round the usual hazards. But where's the real payoff, Reynauld?"

"Far underneath the foundations of the old house. Whatever is there, it was worth spending every piece of gold Mr. Black's uncle had to his name to get at."

Dismas tilted his head to a curious angle, pausing in his cleaning to listen. 

"Neither Roderick nor Mr. Black would say much of what it was, though. But their _faces_ , Dismas-- pure dread, the both of them. Whatever is there is valuable, that's a certainty, and I don't think that getting to it comes cheaply. I think Mr. Black's uncle paid very dearly indeed."

"If it's worth dying for, than it's worth having," Dismas said, pulling the cleaned pieces of his flintlock back together and screwing them into place. "No disrespect to Mr. Black's dearly departed, but if he's spared us the trouble of an excavation, than all the better. He dug his own grave and filled it with gold, and I've few qualms with re-appropriating it. The black market will take Black goods just as gladly as any other."

"Must you pun?" 

"You'll put me to bed with a shovel when I don't," Dismas said with a grin. "Now, the subject of money is all well and good, you know as well as anyone that I'd be pleased to talk about little else, but I've noticed a small issue with the number of backs that we're supposed to carry all this fortune out on. You and I are sturdy boys, old friend, but our arms might be tired by the time we get to our gold from all the necks we'll have to cut. Surely Mr. Black mentioned something about acquiring a few extra hands? Though I'd have trouble seeing from _where_ , with the pickings in this place."

With his armor off, Reynauld's size seemed much reduced; he was hardly small by any normal reckoning, but now he was down to mere mortal size instead of heroic proportions. He sat down on the bed with a sigh, stretching out his legs to work away the kinks. 

"He did, as a matter of fact," he said, reaching down to rub at a stubborn ache in his calf. "For all the caretaker's madness, he has the blacksmith working to fix the carriage, and word is going out through the mercenary guilds about our expedition. We'll have sell-swords coming in by the end of the week, I'd warrant."

"And maybe some will even last long enough to see the treasure at the end," Dismas said. "Not all, of course, but some. Shall we start the betting pool again, once the fodder starts making its way in?"

"You're an awful, morbid creature, Dismas," Reynauld replied, "and you ought to be ashamed. Twenty gold says the first party that goes out with us doesn't come back with us."

Dismas threw his head back and laughed.

\--

The first carriage did, in fact, arrive within the week; by Monday, it had been repaired enough to make another run to the nearest city, and by Wednesday it had returned with its first set of human cargo: a pair of would-be adventurers. When the carriage rolled in, Dismas was sitting on the precarious rail of a dilapidated fence, cutting an apple into slices and eating them from the knife.

The horses pulled their burden into the town square, if it could even charitably be called as such. Once the carriage had rolled to a shuddering stop, the door swung open with a thin creak from hinges in dire need of oil. A small figure dressed entirely in black robes stepped out first, their face hidden entirely by the pale, birdlike mask of a plague doctor. Pouches and glass bottles hung from a belt around their waist, carrying all manner of strange substances that, presumably, would be of some use to them in some situation or another. A vestal emerged from the carriage shortly after them, clad in robes and plate armor emblazoned with symbols of the Light and holy book held in the crook of an arm. The vestal stepped towards the coachman; he leaned down and words were exchanged, too quiet and far away for Dismas to overhear. When the vestal turned away, conversation finished, he straightened and slapped the reins against the horses’ flanks, spurring them to motion again towards the inn yard. There were two small trunks fastened to the back of the carriage; the accoutrements of the newcomers, no doubt.

Mr. Black had directed for any incoming mercenaries to be sent towards lodgings at the inn; there was a building that had once been used as barracks for the local militia, but it had been neglected for years and could barely be called fit for rats, nevertheless men. Until renovations were done on that, making it at least suitable for human habitation, they were all stuck with their shared lodgings at the inn. Dismas supposed that this was preferable to sleeping in the disgrace that they called a barracks, but being under the constant watchful eye of the vigilant Mr. Tapping was starting to wear on his patience.

The vestal approached his rickety piece of fence with the plague doctor trailing along behind her; she stopped some ten feet short, hardly close enough for polite conversation, and looked him over once or twice with the same expression that one might regard a street urchin.

“You, there.”

Dismas, his mouth full of apple at that time, pointed at himself with his knife in an innocent little ‘who, me?’ gesture. He couldn’t see much of her face from underneath that cowl, but he could see the vestal’s mouth twist into an annoyed and condescending angle at his flippant response. 

“Yes, of course, _you_. Do you see another soul about that I might be talking to?”

Dismas looked around, leaning around on his perch with exaggerated motions as though searching the empty streets for anyone else. Somewhere in the distance, a crow cawed raucously.

He settled back, shrugged his shoulders expansively, and then set about chopping another chunk out of his apple. He had several more in various pockets; he could do this for quite some time.

The vestal breathed out in the tight, controlled manner of someone trying to maintain a steady grip on their temper. It was a response that Dismas recognized quite handily—many people had answered his behavior in such a way, and it never ceased to give him some measure of satisfaction. 

“Where,” she said, speaking slowly as though he was dense and might not understand if she used words with too many syllables, “might I find Mr. Black? I was told that I would meet him, or with a Mr. Reynauld.”

Dismas placed his hand over his heart in a mockery of offense. “What, no mention of a Mr. Dismas? I hear he’s a most handsome and charming fellow.”

The plague doctor looked up at their companion, face unreadable on account of it being covered by a mask. There was an inquisitive tilt to their head, though, so there may have been an inquisitive expression to go along with it, somewhere underneath the layers. The vestal looked down at them; they shrugged.

“No,” she said, her voice dry enough that it might have been able to make a desert of an ocean.

“Well,” he said, popping another slice of apple into his mouth and chewing indecently, “that particular travesty aside, if you want Black, you’re going to be waiting for quite a while. I’ve hardly seen hide nor hair of him for some days. Planning to do, or so he says.”

“And Mr. Reynauld?” 

“By the barracks, at last reckoning. Probably on the roof, patching up the holes. Good man,” he said, swallowing his masticated slice and hacking away at what was left on the core. “Good man.”

“Oughtn’t you be joining him, then?” the vestal asked.

“Bless you, no,” he replied archly, “I’m useless with tools. All thumbs.”

“I’ve little doubt,” she said lowly, her tone well beyond unimpressed, then turned on her heel and scanned the town for the direction of the barracks. Heading quickly determined—the town was hardly large enough to lose bearings in-- she looked over at her companion. “I suppose we ought to find this Reynauld then. Shall we, Peche?”

The plague doctor nodded and started following after the vestal as she left. They paused briefly, then turned back and waved a good-bye to Dismas before hurrying to catch up.

He shrugged and went back to his apple; oddness in Mr. Black’s choice of employees was hardly his concern.

\--

After a few days’ time, Mr. Black announced that they were ready for their first expedition.

Their meager party met with him in one of the side rooms of the inn, situated around a circular table with a map spread across the center. It was a practically antique set of schematics for the layout of the old house, yellowing and creased with age, detailing the many halls and corridors and wings of the Black manor in its prime. 

“The only people,” Black said, “who have been journeying into the manor these days have been bandits and looters, and we can hardly go and ask them for their directions. The house has no doubt changed from when this map was made, so before we make any major attempts at clearing out whatever things are now inhabiting it, we’ll need accurate charts.”

Reynauld leaned over the table, hands braced against it, studying the map with all the focused intensity of a general examining the diagram of a battlefield. Morticia, the vestal that Dismas had so kindly been introduced to, stood near him, her attention going between Mr. Black and the map in turns. 

“So,” Dismas said from where he sat, feet propped up on the edge of the table across from his holy companions, “what you want is for us to go on a scouting trip. A little jaunt to get our bearings before we go after something more worthwhile.”

Black nodded. “As you say, Dismas. The information we gain from these excursions will affect all our other plans—“

Dismas cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Yes, yes, it’s terribly important, I’m sure we all understand. Can we get on with it now? I’ll take tramping through your decrepit house over sitting around for a minute longer in this miserable shit of a town.”

Mr. Black’s lips pursed into a thin line. “Far be it from me to keep you, Dismas. I am only your employer, after all.”

“An employer who’s yet to show me a penny in wages—“

“That’s enough, Dismas.”

Reynauld did not even look up from the map, but Dismas’ mouth shut so quickly that he could hear the sound of his own teeth clacking together. Both Morticia and Peche were watching; or, at least, Morticia certainly was watching, and Peche’s mask was pointed in their direction, so it was above average probability that they were watching, too.

“I’m sure we’re all clear on our objectives, Mr. Black,” Reynauld said, straightening up from the table. “We’ll enter through the servants’ quarters here and search the west wing, then return to you with our cartography and any findings in no more than two days’ time. Unless, of course, you’ve more to add.”

“No, though I do wish that I had more to offer you,” he said. “I must ask that all of you be careful; we’ve no knowledge of what’s inside the house, but there are rumors, and none of them good.”

“What sorts of rumors?” Morticia asked.

“Dark figures haunting the halls, and terrible noises coming from deeper in, but little else that’s concrete. No one from the hamlet ventures near anymore, not if they want to return,” he said.

“Bandits, most likely,” Dismas said and clucked his tongue. “We’d best move in, or else there’ll be nothing left for us to find. The outer wings will likely be picked clean as it is.”

“Packs have already been prepared for you with supplies,” Black said. “If you’re in need of something else, speak with the caretaker and he’ll fetch it for you.”

Black breathed deep, then let the breath out slow. 

“Good luck.”

\--

The upper halls of the old house were barren; the adventuring party discovered this early on in their expedition. Dismas had scoffed at the state of the halls, declaring almost immediately that it was a waste of their time, and there was little room to debate him in that fact. Animals, bandits, and the elements had already had their way with whatever had once occupied the rooms, leaving little behind but detritus and refuse. 

The decision was unanimous: to find anything of value, they had to go deeper and further in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> I will be updating the _Dramatis Personae_ with the new characters that were added in later updates. I had started writing this back when the game was in beta, hence the long delay in chapter updates and missing characters, so that will be fixed relatively soon. Not all characters who appear in the story will be listed there, though, and not all who are listed there are guaranteed to remain in the story. This is Darkest Dungeon, after all; everyone’s fair game.
> 
> Also, I have not yet beaten the game (I started over once it was released so that I could play through with all the available content), and I already have a plan for how the story will go and end. It likely won’t be the same as the game’s ending, but hopefully you’ll all enjoy it.
> 
> And, once again, please let me know if you have any questions, comments, or noticed any mistakes!

**Author's Note:**

> I don't have a beta, so please let me know if there are any typos/grammatical weirdness/etc in the text, and thanks for reading!


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